Deadlocked
by Sadako Tetsuwan
Summary: Volunteers wanted for: Mission US-34-#7. Mission Description: Disrupt operations of the notorious Deadlock Gang in the New Mexico area. Confiscate or destroy contraband goods. Estimated mission length (insertion to extraction): 1 hr. Mission Commander: Gabriel Reyes (Supervised by Commander Morrison and Captain Amari). [NON-LINEAR UPDATES! CHECK CHAPTER TITLES FOR NEW CONTENT! c:]
1. Deadlocked

A/N: I was bored at work and I had batteries in my Bluetooth keyboard, so I wrote a thing after only the slightest prodding. I'm in love with the OG Overwatch team, and I'm developing an unhealthy obsession with McCree. The world always needs more Young McCree, amirite?

Overwatch and all characters belong to Blizzard.

* * *

Volunteers wanted for: Mission US-34-#7

Mission Description: Disrupt operations of the notorious Deadlock Gang in the New Mexico area.

Mission Notes: A recent deal they brokered means their weapons cache should be depleted; regardless, intercept before the Gang can access their supplies to ensure the swift resolution of the mission. Confiscate or destroy contraband goods.

Estimated mission length (insertion to extraction): 1 hr

Mission Commander: Gabriel Reyes (Supervised by Commander Morrison and Captain Amari)

* * *

It was supposed to be a simple job, in and out. There was never supposed to be a running firefight from the Deadlock Gang's hideout to the outskirts of town, there were never supposed to be RPGs or prototype laser turrets, there weren't supposed to be more than 2 or 3 casualties max, even with Gabriel spearheading the operation.

The gunfight had been carrying on for an almost comical length of time, though the humor was somewhat dampened by the slowly growing body count; not from getting new wounds, but from the total exhaustion of all first aid equipment. After another three and a half hours baking in the desert sun in a standoff, even Captain Amari was growing impatient. Morrison couldn't tell if he was more annoyed by the delay or his wounds. Reyes was apoplectic.

"Just come on out with your hands up," Jack yelled into the smoldering, bullet-riddled diner, "We've got your goods, we've got your boys, it's time to call it a day."

"Sorry, friend, but I ain't too keen on that plan," a drawling voice replied.

"Either you're coming out, or we're coming in!" Reyes spat.

"Like to see you try, with all your compadres out of commission."

"Trust me, you don't want to see me get _creative_ ," Reyes growled, his gaze narrowed as he tried to peer through the lingering haze of gunsmoke and plaster dust.

"That so? Reckon you're quite the artist with those pieces," the man inside called back, "Let's see that _sensitive_ side."

"Gabriel," Ana warned over the radio. She didn't need a cybernetic eye to see him vibrating with frustration.

"For God's sake, just let me kill the little prick!" he snarled, turning to Jack for support—a last ditch effort. And a rookie mistake.

As soon as his head turned, another volley of shots rang out, heavy slugs sinking into the softened asphalt and bullets pinging off of red stone and steel struts. Gabriel fired back with a warrior's cry, only thinking after a few moments to count shots. Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—damnit, what kind of gun did he have? He fell back behind the wreckage of a hovercar to reload, ducking just in time for a bullet to merely rip the hat from his head rather than his head from his shoulders.

"Y' must be one o' them _abstract_ artists."

"I swear, Jack, I swear to God, I'm going to kill him so much," Gabriel snarled, reloading with fury.

"Keep him talking, I'm going in on the right," Ana voice crackled over the radio, her tone remarkably cool given the situation. She knew she didn't have much of a chance if he came around for a one-on-one duel, but as long as Jack could keep Gabriel from charging in with blind rage, she had a feeling this guy would keep needling him. So juvenile, but she'd take what she could get. This mission was already far too costly.

Picking out detail in the shadowy diner would have been difficult for a pair of regular eyes, but digital optics could adjust so much more quickly, could detect infrared through the dust, could zoom and enhance. Granted, the whole point of those features was that she wasn't supposed to be within spitting distance of a target, but sometimes a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

The scene inside the diner was no better than outside. Several bodies cooling in the shade, a few gangsters barely clinging to life (and certainly not consciousness), and one figure still darting about.

Up close, the target was surprising. He was tall and lanky, and didn't look a day over 18. His messy brown hair was matted with sweat, and he grit his teeth against the pain of several shotgun pellets in his shoulder as he quickly reloaded what looked to be about 8 or 9 guns. He'd load a pistol and slide it across the floor—Ana's first thought was that he must be passing them to an accomplice, but nobody moved to take the gun. He'd load a shotgun and lay it across a booth seat, he'd arrange flashbangs within arm's reach, his eyes darting around the ruined diner all the while seeking out new positions to move to, extra places to stash rifles and magazines, checking the reflection in the picture frames to keep track of Gabriel and Jack.

"In my sights," Ana whispered, though she didn't move to raise her rifle. The space was too small to maneuver in with a sniper rifle—it was a death sentence if he turned and saw her in the shadows. Slowly, she drew her sidearm, her expression one of pure concentration.

"This is your last chance before we let Reyes off his leash," Jack yelled, "I'm gonna give you a countdown, and I want to see you come out with your hands up. Got it?"

The target simply continued reloading.

"Ten! ...Nine! ...Eight!"

"You can count all you like, you ain't takin' me alive," the young man muttered under his breath as Jack continued his countdown, scooping up a pair of large revolvers and peering carefully around the booth he had holed himself up in.

"Five! ...Four! ...Three!" Jack continued, his grip tightening on his rifle as no movement came from inside. "C'mon Ana..."

The target sucked in a breath and moved to stand, his teeth grit as he swung his guns up to fire. "It's High Noon, motherfu—"

He never knew what hit him. He slumped to the floor with a sleep dart in his neck, his guns clattering heavily to the checkered floor.

"Target neutralized," Ana smirked, giving her gun a little twirl before holstering it. Somehow, it felt appropriate.

It wasn't long before he started to come to, his arm painfully pulled back and bound. "Aw hell no."

"What's a nice boy like you doing getting mixed up with a group like this?" Ana asked, calmly hog-tieing him. The tranquilizer kept him from struggling too much, but it was quickly wearing off—especially with that much adrenaline in his system.

"Y'ain't gonna take me alive!" he slurred angrily, squirming pathetically on the floor.

"You're too young to be that pessimistic," Ana sighed, puffing the hair from her face.

"Whaddyou know?" the boy growled, glaring up at her out of the corner of his eye. "I ain't got nothin' now, no thanks to you."

"Good work, Ana," Jack called, waving the dust from his face and clutching his side as he and Gabriel finally entered the diner. "Let's get him locked down with the rest."

"Over my cold dead body," the youth snarled, spitting at Jack's feet.

"I can arrange that," Gabriel growled and returned the favor plus interest, the steel of his armored boot meeting the boy's face.

"Gabriel! Enough!" Ana snapped.

"Why is it 'enough' for me but not him?" Gabriel frowned, the vein in his temple still throbbing.

"Because you're supposed to be one of the adults in the room," Ana huffed.

"Let's just get out of here, I'm sick of this place," Jack sighed, grabbing the loose end of the rope and dragging their squirming, swearing captive behind him.

"Wait! Wait!" he hollered, his head shooting up, "One of y'all grab my hat, will ya?" Jack shook his head and Gabriel let out a disgusted sort of grunt as Ana picked up a well-worn Stetson from one of the tables, brushing a bit of ceiling tile from the brim. "Thank y' kindly," he said, shooting Ana a lopsided smirk. "Guess I ain't lost everything."

"There might be hope for you yet," she smiled in return. "What's your name?"

"Name's McCree," he replied, grunting in pain as he was dragged down the steps, thudding on each one in turn.

"Great, she's named him, now we'll never get rid of it," Gabriel grumbled.


	2. I Ain't No Snitch

A/N: The one-shot turned into more vignettes. It's just too much fun, writing for this period.

* * *

There was no surprise when the bag was ripped from McCree's head. Featureless white room, bright light shining in his face, cuffed to a chair—it was just like in the movies, down to the wall of one-way glass. He had half a mind to make a remark on the subject, but the angry face-kicker from before was standing in front of him, and neither of those other goody-two-shoes from the diner seemed to be around.

"We've got a few questions for you," Reyes asked, smirking down at the punk in the chair. He could tell from the scowl on the kid's face that he'd been about to throw out some zinger, but they both knew the score; whoever talks first wins, and Gabriel wasn't about to be steered through this little interview by some wannabe gangster.

"I ain't gonna talk, 'cause I ain't no fucking snitch!" McCree spat, glaring up at the man.

"We'll see about that, kiddo. We've got ways of making you talk." Gabriel grasped a fistful of McCree's hair and yanked his head backwards to redirect his gaze. "And if you _don't_ talk, we've got ways of scanning your neural pathways to recover the information even after you're dead."

"Then what's the point?" McCree growled, his heart speeding up a touch at Reyes's threat. "Just kill me and rip my brains out, why don'tcha?"

"The authorities get a little suspicious when skinny-ass gringoes turn up in a suitcase with all their limbs broken and their heads missing," Reyes replied, though the smile on his face suggested he didn't really care what the authorities found suspicious. "Besides," he added, drawing an uncomfortably large knife out of it's sheath, "Where's the fun in brain scanning?"

* * *

Eight days. He'd been in the hole eight days. Or he'd at least fallen asleep eight times since Reyes had gotten bored with him.

He didn't even ask him any questions.

The door slid open and McCree was dragged out of the cell by two men in dark uniforms, holding him up on his shaky legs. He'd only been fed eight times, too. He was shoved back down into his chair, the blood from last time still on the floor.

The door opened again and Reyes walked back in, followed by Morrison, that commander that was on every Overwatch poster. What an honor.

Morrison glanced up from the file in his hands, surveying the kid. He looked like hell—Gabriel had really worked him over. His nose had clearly been broken, though the swelling had gone down on his eye.

"That's one healthy-looking prisoner, eh, Jack?" Reyes remarked, smirking.

"Sure is," Morrison replied, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He'd never been so pleased to blatantly ignore Reyes's handiwork. This kid was almost more trouble than he was worth, and Jack almost hated that Gabriel was flirting with the idea of recruiting him to Blackwatch. "I've got a couple of questions for you, McCree," he said, sliding into his chair on the other side of the table.

"Fuck you, _puto_ ," he snarled in return.

"We know your gang deals in arms with international criminals. But what we really want to know is where you're getting the weapons in the first place," Morrison asked, leaning across the table a bit. "C'mon, you can tell me. Unless you'd rather tell Reyes," he added, jerking his head in Gabriel's direction.

"Rather tell the pretty lady what brought me in," McCree replied, "I'm thinkin' she and I could have a _real_ nice conversation," he smirked, licking his lips and thrusting his hips lewdly.

He'd been expecting to get hit, but not by Morrison. His chair was knocked backward and he crashed to the floor, his head cracking on the concrete painfully.

"Whoa! Jack, easy, man!" Reyes yelled, grabbing Morrison and pulling him back. "Jesus, take it down." He glanced down at McCree, watching as the dazed youth spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. "Shit, man, this is my job now, remember?" he murmured softly, giving Morrison a gentle push back toward his chair before hauling McCree back upright and then giving him a punch to the gut.

"A punk like you couldn't handle _half_ of Ana," Morrison muttered over McCree's coughs, finding his pain to be rather cathartic. "Now, back to my questions..."

* * *

McCree's gaze turned upward as the door to the room opened again, his eyes widening as Ana entered the room, her expression stern.

"I'm going to ask you some questions," she began, sitting at the table and giving the youth a once over. His lip was healing up after yesterday, but there were still bandages wrapped around his head. At this point, she couldn't tell who had done more damage to the boy.

"I ain't no snitch," he replied, spitting—or at least making the motions of spitting. His mouth was far too dry to spare any actual spit for the insult.

"Oh no, we're going to have a _nice_ conversation," she said, her gaze narrowing for a moment with motherly disapproval. His gaze quickly fell, and a touch of shame sank dark and sour in his stomach as he thought back to the remark that had earned him his most recent roughing up.

Ana settled back in her chair, sighing softly. "What's your name?" she asked. McCree's gaze popped up again, his brow furrowing.

"Y' already know it," he said.

"Tell me again," she said, her expression unchanging. Her gaze was unnerving in its severity.

"...Jesse," he murmured, "Jesse McCree."

"What's my name?" she asked, her hands folded in her lap.

"...You're Ana Amari," he said, a touch of reverence in his voice. "You're one of the best gunslingers in the world." He couldn't even be mad anymore, knowing he was bested by the best.

"That's right," Ana said, almost cracking a smile at his addendum. "It's nice to finally meet you properly. Though still on unfortunate terms."

"The pleasure's all mine, ma'am," McCree replied automatically, though his voice was rather small.

"Now...how did you get mixed up with the Deadlock Gang?" she asked, her brow creasing.

McCree's gaze fell again, his jaw tensing. Coming back around to the gang sure didn't take long. Silence reigned for several long moments, and a soft sigh left Ana.

"How did you lose your family?" Another moment of silence.

"What makes you think I did?" he asked in reply.

"If you had a family to be with, you wouldn't have been with those men," Ana said softly. "And the gang certainly didn't teach you your manners," she added, a hint of a smile on her lips. McCree gave a snort somewhere between genuine laughter and derision.

"My parents made me do cotillion when I was a kid," he muttered, ignoring the fact that he was still a kid, by most measures. Ana smiled politely, though she had no earthly idea what McCree was talking about.

"So what happened to them?" she asked again, settling back in her seat.

"Don't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why should it?" McCree asked, "They weren't your parents."

"Was it during the Crisis?" she continued. It was an obvious question—she would be shocked if he said no. There were so many war orphans... He was silent for a few more moments.

"Yeah. They put me down in the root cellar when the tin cans rolled up. Heard everything," he said softly. "They died on their feet," McCree said, his voice growing stronger. "They didn't run, and neither will I. McCrees die on their feet," he repeated with the conviction of a revival preacher.

"I understand. Amaris are the same," Ana replied. "My father died defending Port Said. I was so angry, because I was there and I couldn't save him." McCree's brow wrinkled.

"Why're you tellin' me all this?" he asked, squirming uncomfortably in his chair. It didn't make sense for someone to hand out emotional ammunition like that.

"You're angry. And I understand," Ana explained softly. "I think you joined that gang because you were angry and felt small. Just like when I left to join Overwatch," she added. She leaned forward, her expression stern again. "Was the everything you hoped for?" she asked.

"I ain't small," McCree muttered, "An' I ain't weak, an' I ain't gonna talk," he added, ignoring the question of his anger and hopes entirely.

"Oh, no, of course not," she replied sardonically, "You're a big boy now, and you wanted to fight. But now the war is over and yet you still fight, for what? First the people feared the Omnics, now they fear you. Is this the man your parents died to protect?" Ana asked, her gaze narrow. "If this is what they fought for, a boy only concerned about his size and strength, whose business is hurting innocents, then maybe their sacrifice was in vain."

"You leave them outta this!" McCree snarled and strained against his restraints, his heart beating faster as he realized the trap he'd been lead into. They'd both exposed their bellies, and she was the one to strike first.

"Prove me wrong then," Ana spat back, "Prove your life is worth the price your parents paid—what _my_ men paid!" she added, her fists slamming into the table. "Either do something worthwhile with your life, or I'll personally throw you in a cell where you'll rot for the rest of your life! _Inshallah_!" With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, her face filled with rage.

In the next room, Gabriel and Jack watched through the one-way glass with trepidation.

"...You gonna go talk to her?" Jack asked, glancing over at Reyes.

"Me? I'm not going after her, _you_ talk to her," Gabriel replied.

"I've gotta ask him questions, _you_ go," Jack answered quickly, heading for the door.

"Uh-uh, no, _I've_ got questions to ask," Gabriel interrupted, reaching for the doorknob.

"I'm the commander, and I say I'm asking the questions— _you_ talk to Ana," Jack said, darting through the door as soon as Gabriel opened it. "I won't beat him up this time, promise," he called back down the hall.

* * *

"...Ana?" Gabriel called, peering into the sparsely populated lounge. Reinhardt's blonde head swiveled widely at the call, his good eye seeking out the speaker.

"Ah, Gabriel! Care to join us for a game?" Reinhardt asked, waving him over.

"Not right now, gotta talk to Ana," Gabriel replied, sidling up to the couches. Ana was tucked under Reinhardt's arm, holding a hand of cards with an expression of deep concentration; Torbjörn, apparently her opponent in the game, seemed grateful for the interruption.

"C'mon, Reinhardt, probably _command business_ ," Torbjörn said, happily throwing down his hand of cards and hopping off of the couch. "Best leave 'em to their work." Ana sighed as Reinhardt rose from the couch as well, laying down his hand of cards with a smile.

"We can talk later if you need to," Reinhardt smiled, giving Ana's shoulder a gentle squeeze. She continued to stare at her cards, her lips twitching into a frown.

"Gabriel," she acknowledged, not looking up.

"The kid's not gonna talk," Gabriel began, crossing his arms and shifting from one foot to the other.

"He doesn't know anything," Ana remarked. Her cards had slowly drifted down into her lap, but her gaze remained fixed. None of his vitals that she could detect with her cybernetic eye had changed between any of his answers during any of his 'interviews', at least not until he got his hackles up at the end—either he had no tells, even down to heart rate and skin temperature, or he had nothing to conceal.

"Did he really get under your skin that bad?" Gabriel asked, plopping down on the couch next to her and frowning.

"He was just a foot soldier to them," she remarked, ignoring his question. "People died for him, people _loved_ him, but he was just another foot soldier to those men." She shook her head, letting out a shuddering sigh. "That could have been me. That could be Fareeha. Angry and alone." Gabriel continued to frown, though he did put an arm somewhat awkwardly around Ana's shoulders. He wasn't good at comforting people—he never had been.

"You know Jack n' I wouldn't let that happen to her," he said softly, giving her a little squeeze.

"But it happened to that boy. Him and others..." she murmured. Those orphans, angry and alone, they were the ones joining the Red Blades, the Australian Liberation Front, Talon, the Deadlock Gang...victims becoming villains. It made her heart ache.

"He can't tell us anything...but I still think he could be an asset," Gabriel ventured. "I mean, I'm not crazy about him, but he's got a lot of spirit, and I hate to admit it, but he's a crack shot with those pistols..."

"Okay," Ana said softly, her eyes sliding closed.

"...Okay?"

"I know what you're trying to say," she said, glancing over at him for a moment. "Blackwatch is your project. If you want to recruit him, fine."

"Jack isn't gonna like it," Gabriel said, chewing his lip. He'd been expecting that line to come out of her mouth, rather than his.

"I don't like it, either," Ana murmured. "...But none of the other options seem any better."

"I'll go make him an offer," Gabriel said, standing up before she could change her mind.

"I have one condition," Ana said, standing as well, her expression serious.

"Name it."

"He can't just be a foot soldier again. He's not just going from one gang to another. Overwatch is a family," she said, holding her voice steady even as her hands shook. "He's family, and we have to help him." Gabriel chuckled, shaking his head for a moment.

"That little punk needs some tough love, that's for sure."

"Fine by me. That'll be your job," Ana said, almost cracking a smile.

* * *

a/n: inshallah - "God willing"


	3. Guilt Trip

The transition from gang member to Blackwatch agent wasn't as difficult as McCree had expected. Reyes was just as much of a hard-ass as his former boss, the other agents were the rough-and-tumble types he was used to, and as a bonus, he got to travel all over the world rather than just covering the same border turf. But an uncertain stretch of days in his schedule had finally arrived—two weeks of leave. He wasn't sure how to feel about those days, let alone how to spend them. Where could he go? Just hanging around Zurich for two weeks would be awfully boring, and he certainly didn't want to go back to New Mexico. There was nothing there for him anymore, nothing but bad blood…

"Jesse," Captain Amari called, her voice warm, "Have you made plans for your leave yet?"

"Uh, no ma'am," McCree replied, raising his hand to his hat. "Just figured I'd go where the wind took me." Ana shook her head, chuckling softly.

"No, no, that won't do," she smiled. "Come with me. I'm sure we've got room."

"Um, room where, ma'am?" McCree asked, though he obediently followed where she lead.

* * *

The landing pad at Cairo was bustling with tourists and massive shipping containers as usual, the scent of cumin and lemon and meat roasting on spits wafting out of dozens of street vendors lining the port.

"Keep close, wouldn't want to lose you," Ana began, but upon glancing back at McCree, she realized what a ridiculous concern that was. With his broad-brimmed Stetson, the pistols hanging from his hips and his wide-eyed expression, he stuck out like a sore thumb. "Just…just keep close."

"Mom! Mom!"

Ana turned at the call, an enormous smile spreading across her face. "Fareeha!" she called in return, dodging through the crowd and wrapping her arms around a slight girl in a bright, cheery sundress. The girl was the absolute spitting image of her mother, but with eyes that shone with innocent enthusiasm. "Come here, there's someone you have to meet," she smiled, leading the girl back to McCree. "Jesse, this is my daughter, Fareeha. Fareeha, this is Mr. McCree, one of our newest agents."

"Pleased t' meet you, Miss," McCree said, tipping his hat to the young lady, who giggled in reply.

"He's American, isn't he?" Fareeha asked, grinning up at Ana for a moment.

"What gave me away?" he asked, the girl's smile infectious. She giggled again, hiding her face in Ana's arm.

"She's at that age," Ana remarked, glancing from McCree to her daughter before running a hand through Fareeha's hair playfully.

"Mooom, stop," she whined, hurriedly straightening her hair.

"Grandma's waiting for us, we should get moving before the coffee gets cold," Ana said, chuckling softly at how McCree perked up at the mention of a hot cup of coffee.

The streets were noisy and full of excitement; the many narrow residential lanes darting off from the main thoroughfares couldn't easily accommodate hovercars, so much local traffic was still carried out on foot. Restaurants dotted the streets, perfumed shisha smoke wafted out of coffee houses and carts hawked sweet hibiscus teas and apricot candy. It was nigh impossible for McCree to take it all in and not lose track of the women in front of him—each street passed was an entire tempting world he was missing out on, and one he was almost certain he would be unable to track down again later.

"Mama, we're home!" Ana called, reaching down to unfasten her boots. "Shoes off," she added glancing back at McCree—she would never forget the tongue-lashing that she, Gabriel and Jack had earned from her mother the first time they came to visit, and Overwatch was now only welcome in the home under Ana's strict guidance in protocol.

" _Ahlan_!" came a cry from farther inside the house, and an older woman with a loose hijab bustled into the entryway and embraced Ana warmly. Arabic quickly began to fly, leaving McCree simply staring again.

"Uh, y'mind cluing me in?" he asked, looking over at Fareeha.

"Small talk," she handwaved, stepping out of her sandals.

"Jesse, this is my mother. Mama, _hadha 'iibni jadid_ , McCree," Ana introduced, all smiles. Fareeha giggled, hiding her face behind Ana again.

"The pleasure is mine, ma'am," he said, removing his hat and ducking his head, unsure of exactly how he ought to approach the greeting—or what the girl could possibly be laughing about.

"Welcome to my family," the woman said with a smile and a heavy accent, waving McCree into the house but watching his feet extremely carefully. " _Gahwah_?" she asked, motioning them all toward the table.

" _Na'am_ ," Ana smiled, leaning over to McCree. "Coffee?" she whispered, translating.

"Oh, yes ma'am," he smiled, taking a seat and wiggling his toes absentmindedly. It was odd, leaving his boots at the door—he somehow felt naked without them. And what had she meant about 'welcome to the family'?

"Watch your feet," Ana murmured, "Feet are the dirtiest part of your body, so don't point them at anyone."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," dropping his hat in his lap and feeling uncomfortably like he was back in school with a strict matron walking up and down the rows with a ruler.

"So, Mom, school is out," Fareeha began, fidgeting slightly, "Can I come back to the Watchpoint with you when your leave ends?"

"We'll see," Ana replied, her tone casual. It was a question that she fielded almost weekly—there was nowhere Fareeha would rather be than among the heroes of her childhood. Most of them had quite the soft spot for her, as well. Perhaps just a quick visit wouldn't be so bad. Reinhardt had been asking about her, after all, and Jack had picked up more than a few souvenirs from their travels for her…

* * *

McCree couldn't help it—whenever he was in a new place, he had to scope out every nook and cranny. Maybe it was an old habit from his Deadlock days, maybe it was pure nosiness, he didn't have a proper explanation for his compulsion.

He just really, _really_ hoped Ana wouldn't happen across him snooping through her closet. Wouldn't want her to get the wrong impression…

From the looks of it, she hardly owned anything that wasn't work-related somehow. The right half of her closet was dominated by a massive gun safe (though he managed to resist the urge to try to crack the safe and bask in what must surely have been a glorious collection of rifles), and the rest belonged to various uniforms. Dressy, standard, at least five kinds of camo, a spare Overwatch trench or two…though a few _clearly_ didn't belong to her. Unanswerable questions were the eternal burden of nosy busybodies, McCree supposed.

A holoframe on the bedside table caught his eye, and with only half a moment's hesitation, he activated it.

A man with a broad chest and a kind face peered out of the photo, holding a beaming woman in what looked to be traditional garb and a metric ton of jewelry. It took a moment to recognize her without seeing her distinctive tattoo (though who could tell if she had it under all that satin and gold?), but once it clicked, there was no mistaking that the woman was Ana.

"Get a little lost?"

McCree jumped at the intrusion, and found himself both trying to retreat from the table and block the evidence of his snooping from Ana's sight.

"Um, y-yes ma'am," he said sheepishly, his cheeks warm and his gaze falling to the floor. He could feel her disapproval from across the room. "…Is this you?" he asked, hoping that polite curiosity and feigned ignorance might help his situation somehow. Ana sighed, striding across the room and scooping up the holoframe.

"Yes…and my husband, Ahmed," she explained. "We met in the army—he was in the tank corps, I was sniper division, of course. We used to argue over whose job was more dangerous…" Ana smiled, pressing a button on the side of the frame to cycle to the next picture; her husband holding a tiny newborn, beaming like the proud father he was. "He was killed in action when Fareeha was a year old, right at the start of the Crisis. I wasn't there to protect him," she murmured, turning the frame off and carefully returning it to it's place. "I swore, never again. I would never not be there to protect the ones I love; my family, by blood or by oath. I would do everything I could to protect them."

McCree's gaze fell, and he took a few slow steps back, something writhing in his stomach unpleasantly.

"…I'm sorry, ma'am," he murmured, chewing on his lip so hard it hurt. "That day, when y'all brought me in, I hurt your people. Killed 'em, even. Hell, I tried to kill you," he added, his gaze daring to rise for half a moment.

"I know. And I'll never forget their names," Ana replied, her expression serious, yet inscrutable. She took a step toward the young man and rested a hand on his scruffy cheek. "You were my enemy that day. But now, you're family. I forgive you," she said softly.

"I don't rightly know how you can," McCree murmured, "I'm a real sonuvabitch."

"Jesse," she smiled, cupping his face in her hands. "We all make mistakes, and we must be ready to forgive when someone does the right thing. You're doing that now." She rose up on tip-toe and kissed his brow affectionately, turning his face upward a little more. "Using your talents for justice makes me a _very_ proud mother. You're my son now, and I can forgive you." Her hand reached back and grabbed his ear, giving it a tug. "But you'd better keep on the straight and narrow, young man," she added, a playfulness in her eye even as McCree yelped in pain.

"Y-yes ma'am!"

* * *

McCree was savoring his cigar as best he could. Every time one had even come close to his lips, Ana had snatched it away with disturbing proficiency with a growled warning about not letting Fareeha see—even when he would lean out of the window in the guest room, she would catch him every time and scold him again. It was driving him stir crazy; crazy enough to climb onto the roof and hide behind an aged satellite dish to finally taste that sweet, sweet tobacco. With a cigar between his teeth and the cool night air, he couldn't help but feel at peace. There was a strange familiarity in Cairo; the same midday heat and big sky he missed from back home, good coffee (even if it did come in an awfully small cup), hell, even Ana and Fareeha reminded him of better days, his more innocent youth before the Crisis, back when he had a real family…

Ana. How could she be so kind to him, after what he did in New Mexico? Reyes certainly didn't seem to be finished taking out his frustrations with him, and even Commander Morrison seemed more "professional" around him, but Ana seemed to be completely serious about her forgiveness—and even more serious about her motherly duties toward him. Could she just be the best actor of the bunch? Was she waiting for the opportunity to shoot him in the back of the head and avenge her fallen men?

He could practically hear her voice in his head. 'You can't be that cynical, Jesse.' He let out a long exhale, watching the cloud of smoke twist and curl up into the midnight blue sky, the stars twinkling above like ten thousand diamonds.

Even in a moment of peace and quiet solitude, he had his doubts. Something uncomfortable squirmed in his stomach the longer he lingered on the subject. How could he possibly be forgiven for what he'd done? How could he _not_ be suspicious—even if it made him feel lower than a snake's belly to doubt Ana?

There was something of a commotion downstairs, and an excited shriek from Fareeha.

"Uncle Reinhardt!"

"Fareeha! Look how you've grown!" The man's voice and booming laugh seemed to shake the entire house. McCree quickly stubbed out the remnants of his cigar and flicked it out over the rooftops, hurrying back down the drainpipe he'd climbed.

"Where's that cowboy of yours, Ana?"

"He's probably off trying to smoke somewhere where he thinks I won't catch him," Ana chuckled. McCree could hear Fareeha giggling again as he hurried down the stairs, stunned that there was any room left to move in the living room with such a mountain of a man in that space. Reinhardt had scooped Fareeha up under one arm effortlessly, her head hanging several feet above the floor, a wide smile on her face.

"Aah, there you are!" Reinhardt grinned, clapping McCree on the shoulder and nearly buckling his knees. "Looks like Ana is feeding you well!"

"Yessir," McCree smiled, "Been eatin' a lotta that shawarma stuff."

"Ahh, yes! The best kebabs in Cairo are right on this street!" Reinhardt laughed. "What about the falafel?"

"Yep, 's a little too green, but it tastes pretty good. Fareeha's been makin' it for me," he chuckled; he couldn't tell if her cheeks were flushed from hanging upside down, or from his compliment.

"Will you be staying with us, Reinhardt?" Ana asked, apparently unsurprised by any of the recent events in her living room.

"If it's not inconvenient," he smiled, his chuckle rumbling like two mountains crashing together.

"I'm sure we can arrange something. Fareeha, would you mind if Jesse took your room so Uncle Reinhardt can use the guest room?"

"Moooom," Fareeha whined, squirming in Reinhardt's grip. "I don't want to share my room with a boy!" she said, blushing brightly.

"Neither do I," Ana replied, smirking slightly as she glanced between her two house guests. It would be a bit awkward to bunk with Reinhardt again, let alone to share a bed with a teenage boy. "So you'll share with me."

"Splendid!" Reinhardt cried, sweeping Ana and McCree into a crushing hug, knocking the hat from his head. "I love it when a plan comes together!"

* * *

McCree pushed open the window above Fareeha's bed, but paused halfway through raising a cigar to his lips. If Ana caught even a whiff of tobacco smoke on anything in the room, he'd be signing his own death warrant. He quickly pulled the window shut and tip-toed for the door.

"Don't tell nobody," he whispered to the posters on the wall, only slightly troubled that most of the faces watching from the shadows were his commanders—the most worrisome one was Ana's determined glare peering out of the posters all around the room.

He crept down the hall, heading for the bathroom when he paused. The door to Ana's room hung half open (all the better to sniff out his cigar smoke, no doubt), and he couldn't help it—his nosy nature took over again. He peered into the room, knowing full well that this was perhaps one of the most ungentlemanly things he'd ever done in his short life.

Fareeha slept on her back, sprawled out and totally at ease—why wouldn't she be? Some of mankind's greatest heroes were sleeping under the same roof. Ana herself slept with one arm wrapped around her daughter's waist, and seemed a touch tense in her sleep. He knew soldiers often had nightmares—he could only imagine what Ana must've seen in her years. Still, in her own home, with her firecracker of a daughter sleeping peacefully at her side, she looked like she was right where she belonged.

Only he was out of place, leering in like some boogeyman. He'd never felt like such a fox guarding a henhouse.

McCree slowly backed away from the door, guilt clawing at his stomach as he pushed the door shut. 'That cigar'll calm your nerves,' he told himself, heading down the hall to the bathroom again. One window ledge and a drainpipe later, and he was back at his perch, puffing away as he slowly coaxed the cigar to life. He had half a mind to see if any cafes were still open—those hookahs had tobacco in them, right?

"Ana's going to kill you."

McCree jumped again, yelping softly as he singed his thumb on his lighter. "Reinhardt! Didn't see you down there, sir…"

"Really? How can you miss me?" he asked, managing to restrain his booming laugh as he looked up from the patio below.

"I ain't lookin' out for you…I'm lookin' out for Ana," McCree murmured, glancing around as if the mere mention of her name would summon her and deprive him of yet another cigar.

"Heh. Those things will kill you, you know," Reinhardt remarked.

"Yeah, been hearin' that since I joined up."

"Don't worry, I'm sure Ana will break you of your vices soon enough," Reinhardt smiled.

"She's a mighty fine woman," McCree remarked softly, tucking the cigar back into his pocket and dropping down onto the patio. "Though I must admit, she confounds me some."

"What's so 'confounding'?" Reinhardt asked, carefully taking a seat.

"She's so trusting," McCree replied, adjusting his hat conscientiously.

"Hah! You don't know Ana very well, then," Reinhardt replied. "She's wary of every little thing."

"But that's just it! She brought me into her home," McCree replied. "I'm not a good guy, not like y'all. Not like her. I ain't no hero."

"Not yet," Reinhardt smiled, "But there's potential in you. That's why we let you join. You're not a hero yet, but you're no villain."

"I've _killed_ Overwatch men," McCree lamented, starting to recognize the familiar feeling that writhed heavily in his guts every time he thought back to Route 66. He'd felt it when he'd spied in on Ana, too. It felt like a rattlesnake in his belly, its poison whispering that he was guilty, tying its body into a noose. "If someone left Overwatch an' tried to join my gang, we'd've killed 'em—can't trust a man who turns coat. An' right now, she's asleep in the next room. It wouldn't be nothin' for me to go in there—kill her. Hurt her. Hurt her in ways no woman should ever hurt. Hurt Fareeha," he said, his voice near trembling, the cold poison in his veins digging his grave even as he stood at the gallows. "Don't she know that? Don't any of y'all know that?"

Reinhardt let out a placid sigh like a sympathetic parent watching their child suffer over the fate of a cartoon character at the commercial break.

"You don't believe that about yourself," he said, his voice as soft and soothing as he could make it. "If you could see your face right now, you'd understand. Just now, when you said that…the look on your face. You could never hurt those girls. You would never _dream_ of hurting Fareeha. You're not that kind of man. If Ana thought you were, she would have killed you that day. No… Do you want to know what she sees when she looks at you?" He smiled, resting a massive hand on McCree's shoulder.

"She sees mistakes. Not monsters. Someone lost, and now found. She sees someone we can _all_ learn to trust with our lives—the way we trust Ana. The way your men trusted you. The way _she_ trusts you." He gave him a reassuring little squeeze, smiling wider. "In time, everyone will come around. But as far as I'm concerned, if Ana trusts you, I trust you. You have my loyalty."

"…Jes' hope it ain't misplaced," McCree murmured, unsure if the tightness in his throat was from that invisible noose. "Don't knows that I could trust someone who'd killed my guys."

"You trust Ana and Jack and Gabriel, don't you?" Reinhardt asked, an almost incredulous look on his face. "They attacked your gang." The realization of what had taken root was dawning on McCree's face—Reinhardt couldn't help but grin.

"You know who I meant," McCree replied, a little smile on his lips.

* * *

A/N: hadha 'iibni jadid – this is my new son


	4. Kids These Days

"Angela, we need to move those trucks. Can you help me with that?"

"Sorry, Commander, I can't drive yet."

"...You're a doctor, right?"

"Yes."

"You graduated from college, right?"

"Yes, when I was 12."

"Bah! These kids, they are growing up too fast these days..."

"I built a reactor at 12. It shows initiative and talent!"

"I built a model plane."

"That was last week, Jack."

"I built a slingshot and egged my teacher's house."

"Nobody is surprised, McCree."

"I did that, too."

"Nobody is surprised, Gabriel."

* * *

A/N: Just a quick one, working on a longer chapter.

Mercy and McCree are the same age, and appear in the same photos as 12-year-old-ish Pharah, but was recruited by Overwatch because she was the head of surgery at a famous hospital and was a pioneering researcher. Both of these things are true.

Solution: Angela Ziegler is the Swiss Doogie Howser.


	5. Amigos

A/N: In order to avoid confusion about what the newly posted chapter is, I'll leave this here and re-arrange it into it's proper place in the chapter order in a week or so.

* * *

Gabriel was frankly surprised at how well McCree blended in here. He hadn't taken off that stupid cowboy hat, and though he'd long traded biker cut for something a little more in keeping with his new allegiance, he still wore those damn leather chaps. More infuriating, he kept correcting Gabriel's pronunciation—and it wasn't even the correction so much as the 'Only men in gay bars say it with a 'ch' sound' jab.

But here, it seemed the vaquero aesthetic had never completely died away. Or at least the idea of what it meant hadn't died. Nobody looked twice at McCree, though it was mainly because nobody seemed to look once at him. They averted their eyes, made sure to move out of his way—bounty hunters still favored that fashion around here. Gabriel, however, kept getting jostled and kept having to snag narrow wrists as their owner's fingers dipped into his pockets.

None of those wrists belonged to who they were looking for, however.

"Man how're we s'pposed to track down someone with a description of 'a girl with a cute bag'?" McCree complained, pushing his hat back with a sigh. "Couldn't get anything else?"

"How many of your records are left after what happened to Amarillo?" Reyes replied, pulling his own knit cap farther down on his brow. He looked tough as hell—some part of him admired all the pick-pockets brave enough to fish around for the wallet of a man with a face like his. Another part resented that McCree's wallet was clearly visible in his pocket and not even a very forward lady looking for trouble of a different kind had tried to lay hands on him.

"They still got cameras down south 'round here, ain't they?" McCree muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. "If'n I gotta talk to another kid an' it ain't our target, I'm gonna slug ya." Gabriel's glee over McCree's discomfort was palpable. Couldn't let Blackwatch agents get _too_ comfortable, even if there were only, what, 4 of them at this point?

"Just keep it cool, kid," Gabriel chuckled, his dark eyes flicking around the fountain courtyard. "Go get us a couple of beers—you're old enough here."

"Heh, yer a bad influence, Reyes," McCree grinned, prowling through the street carts and vendors. Gabriel kept scanning the damaged streets. Even though it had been six years since the end of the Crisis, many places were still suffering, even in wealthy countries, let alone in places like Mexico, where internal conflict had been wearing the nation's fabric thin for decades before the Crisis…

"Cheers," McCree called, holding out a bottle of pale yellow beer, a lime wedge haphazardly shoved down the neck. Gabriel paused the moment his hand touched the glass.

"It's warm."

"Ain't nothin' I can do about that," McCree shrugged, swigging his warm beer and frowning slightly. "...Wish I could, ugh."

Gabriel pretended to drink his warm beer, even the smell of the cheap drink wrinkling his nose. "Don't look, but I think I've got our target."

"You sure this time?"

"Pink shirt, blue backpack, just passed the bakery," Gabriel said. "I don't think she's just got books in that backpack." McCree glanced over his shoulder, focusing on the bag. It _was_ lumpy in some unusual ways.

"Better hope it ain't cans of beans or somethin'," McCree sighed, handing off his overpriced beer and pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, a random address jotted down on it and a random photograph attached. He needed some cover, after all.

The little girl seemed oblivious, but McCree knew full well how acutely aware orphans of the Crisis were. She wasn't looking around with curiosity, but scanning the street—trying to catch sight of him behind her.

"'Scuse me," he called, purposefully stepping into her line of sight, "I'm 'fraid I'm a little lost—first time in Dorado, y'know, an' I'm tryin' t' find someone…"

"Lo siento, no hablo Inglés," the girl replied, her eyes sweeping over him quickly, assessing him, _scanning_ him. She'd seen him somewhere before—not in person, of course, probably a list of mugshots or a bounty hunter registry or something, just while browsing for interesting information to sell.

"No se preocupes, mi madre me enseñó," McCree replied, with significantly less of an accent one might expect, given how thick his accent was in English.

" _Oh! That makes things much easier_ ," the girl replied, her voice lilting and slightly mischievous. It had been a while since McCree had needed to speak Spanish at length, but having been in Dorado for a little while already was helping greatly. " _What can I do for you?_ "

" _I'm looking for someone,_ " McCree replied, crouching down to speak to the girl.

" _Are you a bounty hunter?_ "

" _Something like that,_ " he smiled, tipping his hat. " _I don't expect you to know where I can find him, but...I at least need some_ _information_ _._ " The girl glanced around, her gaze sweeping over Reyes in the distance before she tugged lightly on McCree's hand, leading him toward an alleyway.

" _We're being watched,_ " she murmured, ducking into the shadows.

" _Yeah, I know, he's my partner,_ " McCree replied, " _Unless you mean someone else?_ "

" _There's always someone else. Now...how do I know you aren't a cop?_ "

McCree smirked, rolling up his left sleeve. " _Would I be police if I had ink like this?_ " he asked, exposing midnight black tattoos on his arm and shoulder, cobwebs around his elbow and an angry-looking skull with wings and chains. She didn't know much English, but she instantly knew where she recognized him from.

" _Ooh, Deadlock Gang,_ " she whistled lowly. " _Aren't you a little far south?_ "

" _Just a little,_ " McCree grinned. " _But I'm not here on club business, per se. Like I said, I'm looking for someone, ex-Los Muertos. He didn't only have bad blood with them, if you catch my drift. Looking to bring him in, ask him a question or two._ "

" _I'm not sure I've got what you're looking for, then,_ " the girl sighed, " _I don't keep records of every gangster in Dorado._ " Another skill that orphans of the Crisis had was lying—lying straight to someone's face. Lying without tells.

" _Oh, don't worry, honey, I know better than to ask for something that big up front,_ " McCree chuckled. " _Gotta build up our relationship first._ " The girl played the game well—she was almost as smooth as he was, and certainly just as ballsy. A few more years dealing in her trade, and she'd be lying better than him. He'd have to keep that in mind. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his unmolested wallet, extracting a few bills from it and holding them out. " _For now, how about where I can find Los Muertos on friendly ground—I'm looking to make some_ _friends_ _, after all,_ " he winked.

The girl snatched the bills from his hand with the speed of a rattlesnake, reaching down the front of her shirt and withdrawing the cutest little beaded coin purse on a long cord. It seemed to be quite full—wadded up bills and memory cards and even a few old USB drives poked out haphazardly. She silently stuffed the bills away and the coin purse disappeared down her blouse again. Her backpack slid from he shoulders and hit the ground with a heavy metallic thunk, and a digi-glove was on her hand in an instant.

" _You know your way around Dorado, Deadlock?_ " she asked, unzipping the top of the bag and flicking on the projector.

" _Not so well, I'm afraid. Old paper maps are pretty much useless around these parts,_ " McCree replied, raising a brow. The kid had a pretty solid set-up; clearly professional level equipment.

" _That's okay, I can give you a map, at least—free of charge. For_ _friends_ _,_ " she winked, holding a hand out.

" _Much obliged,_ " he replied, smirking as he slapped his burner into her hand.

" _The docks are a major center of Los Muertos activity—but legitimate, non-gang business happens there, too. Do you have a contract for your target?_ " she asked, poking and prodding at the projected image with her glove.

" _I'm afraid not—I'm not that legitimate,_ " he replied.

" _Okay, docks are a no go...how aboooout...behind the bodega?_ " she offered, a different part of town lighting up on the map. " _There's always someone out back there in case somebody in town needs something black market or shady._ "

" _Sounds like I'm about to make some new friends,_ " McCree said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a cigar.

" _Ooooh, smoking is bad for you,_ " she teased, her gloved fingers tapping and tracing across his phone.

" _Yeah, filthy habit. Don't start, kid,_ " he smirked, just holding it in his lips for now.

" _Here you go. Show 'em the map and they'll know I sent you—just in case, y'know?_ " she winked, holding the phone out.

" _No problem,_ " McCree nodded, slipping the phone back in his pocket and withdrawing a pack of gum, offering her a piece in silence.

" _Ooh, is it the fruity kind?_ "

" _Nah, it's just boring gum. If I'd picked, it'd be fruity,_ " he grinned. She shrugged and took a stick anyway, popping it in her mouth.

" _Either way it's still sweet. Thanks._ "

" _No, thank you_ ," he smiled, patting his pocket. " _I'll be in touch, friend._ "

" _Of course you will,_ " she laughed, chewing her gum loudly and packing away her set-up. " _That's what_ _friends_ _do._ "

" _I'll make it more interesting next time,_ " McCree called over his shoulder with a grin. He walked with swagger back into the fountain court to find Reyes sitting with his arms crossed and two lukewarm beers arranged on the edge of the fountain.

"Thought putting 'em in the water might cool 'em off, but they're no better than before," Reyes muttered, frowning up at McCree. "Contact made?"

"Yessir," McCree replied. "Definitely seems t' be a free agent—thinkin' we've made a friend."


	6. Keep It Under Your Hat

McCree adjusted his hat and peered out into the dark, sighing quietly. Ana wasn't around so he knew he could smoke if he wanted, but Morrison or Reyes would tell her about it, no doubt.

"You should get some sleep, McCree," Jack said, "Head on inside, we'll get you when it's time for your watch."

"Yessir," McCree replied, tipping his hat to the commander. He shoved his hands in his pockets to warm them against the cool night air, turning and heading back into the damaged dropship. Go figure, the one time they really needed a mechanic, and Torbjörn half a world away relaxing on some beach somewhere with nine days still left in his leave time. Instead...

'Let's take McCree,' Reyes had said with that wolfish smirk of his, 'He could use a little _combat experience_ ,' he'd said.

Jackass.

McCree let out a huff as he slipped into the bunks. Most of the beds were empty, what with everyone pitching in to jury-rig the engine back together. One bed, however, was occupied.

Ana was curled up on her side, having only removed her boots before falling asleep—she hadn't even bothered to pull the covers back or take off her coat. It was probably for the best, since even in springtime, the nights were cold in Russia. Still, she didn't look comfortable at all, shifting and whispering in Arabic.

"...Ma'am?" McCree called softly, inching toward the bed and reaching for her shoulder.

"Don't wake her, she comes out swinging," Reinhardt whispered, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as McCree jumped back.

"Pert near give me a heart attack," he muttered under his breath. "...Is she okay, sir?" he asked, inching closer again.

"Ana doesn't sleep well, not since the Omnic Crisis," Reinhardt whispered, kneeling down next to her bed. "Don't worry, McCree, I'll take care of her," he smiled.

"You sure?" McCree asked softly, sinking onto one of the hard mattresses and watching Ana squirm on the bed, her brow creased with worry.

"I'm sure," he replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble. After another moment's observation, McCree swung his legs onto the cot and pulled his hat down over his eyes, sighing as he did his best to settle in.

* * *

" _Tawaqquf! La if'al!_ "

McCree jerked awake at the sound of screaming from the bed next to him, swatting the hat from his head after a moment of confusion.

"Ana! Ana, it's alright!" Reinhardt soothed, reaching out slowly to her. She was sitting bolt upright in the bed, gasping for breath, her eyes wide and fearful and darting around the room in a panic. At Reinhardt's touch, she nearly jumped out of her skin, her fist raised to lash out.

"Reinhardt…!" she gasped after a moment, though the tension didn't leave her body.

"Yes, it's me," he whispered, smiling in spite of her threatening stance. "It's alright, you're on the dropship, it's safe here..." He moved slowly, holding his arms open in a peaceful gesture.

"Oh Reinhardt!" she sobbed, pressing herself against his broad chest to hide her face. "I'm-I'm sorry…!"

"Don't worry," he said softly, wrapping her trembling form in his massive arms. "You didn't hit me this time." From somewhere inside his embrace, there was a soft sniffle. "...Was it your father, or your husband?" Reinhardt asked, gently stroking her hair.

"B-Baba," she whimpered. "I can't stop seeing him like that..."

"It's alright, darling, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Reinhardt murmured, shifting to lean against the hull a little more comfortably; he knew he was going to be there for a while. "Sssh, you're safe...I'm right here," he soothed, leaning down and kissing the top of her head gently.

Unseen by both Reinhardt's blinded eye and Ana's panicked scan of the room, McCree sat on his cot, shifting uncomfortably. He could tell that this was a private moment, that Ana would probably be terribly embarrassed to know he'd been watching in a moment of fragility, but he couldn't very well leave and give them privacy—the door was on the other side of the quarters, and that would blow his cover. All he could do was lay on his bed and try to go back to sleep, doing his best to not eavesdrop on Reinhardt's soft reassurances and Ana's sobs and occasional gasps for breath.

* * *

"Get up, McCree," Reyes growled, shaking the young man's shoulder rather vigorously. "It's my turn to sleep."

"Yessir," McCree slurred, slowly sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. He dared to glance toward Ana's bed—Reinhardt was still sitting up in it, his chin resting on his chest as he slumbered. Ana was curled up in his arms, having finally managed to find peace in her dreams. A small smile tugged at McCree's lips before parting for an almost theatrically large yawn.

"Get a move on, I'm tired," Reyes muttered, heading for his own cot. "...Why the hell is your hat on my bed?"

Gabriel had seen a man get shot out of a cannon at the circus when he was a kid, but there were no human-shooting cannons in the sleeping quarters, so he had no explanation for how McCree launched himself across the room, seizing his hat moments before crashing head-long into the bulkhead.

"What was that?!" Ana snapped, instantly awake.

"M' hat was on the bed," McCree said, his voice full of pain. "Had t' get it off."

"For how long?!"

"Dunno. Danger's passed. Oww..."

"Am I missing something here?" Gabriel frowned, looking down as McCree struggled to his feet, still dazed by his landing.

"'S bad luck for a hat to be on your bed," McCree explained, gingerly rubbing at the quickly growing lump on his head.

"Everyone knows that," Ana agreed sagely. Gabriel opened his mouth to disagree, but he was far too tired to try to debate the point of headgear-based superstitions.

"So do I have to light a candle or throw some salt on it or what?" he asked with a sigh, rubbing at his eyes.

"No need, took care of it, sir," McCree smiled, carefully returning his hat to its rightful place. "Sorry for invitin' bad luck. Maybe it didn't notice I left the door open."

"Let's get your head looked at before you go on watch," Ana said, carefully extracting herself from Reinhardt's arms and leading McCree out of the quarters. "I'd hate to think that there was any bad luck lingering there."

"...Have _you_ ever heard that hats on beds are bad luck?" Gabriel asked, looking over at Reinhardt.

"Not before today," Reinhardt replied, chuckling sleepily.

* * *

A/N: _Tawaqquf, la if'al_ \- Stop, don't go


	7. Study Group

"Well if you think he's cute, I say go for it, honey," McCree advised, popping his gum casually. As long as Fareeha was visiting the Watchpoint, he was on a strict no-smoking-under-penalty-of-death policy from Ana.

"Yeah, but grandma is _super_ traditional," Fareeha replied, punching a few numbers into her calculator and jotting down the result, her legs slowly swinging in time over her back to the twangy music drifting out of McCree's computer. "She makes me get up really early every day for morning prayers. Mom doesn't even make me get up early on Fridays," she grumbled.

"Yeah, don't know much 'bout that," McCree shrugged, casually flipping through one of her science textbooks. At least they were in English. "What's all this here?"

"That's ions. Don't skip so far ahead, we're still working on math," she said, tapping the back of his hand with her pencil.

"Fareeha?" Morrison frowned, poking his head into the room with confusion. "What are you doing in here? McCree, don't distract Fareeha from her homework."

"I ain't distracting," McCree replied, snapping the book shut and running a hand through his messy hair.

"Yeah, he's helping me, Jack," Fareeha replied, "I didn't want to bother any _real_ agents with my questions."

"Hey!"

"How much do you have left?" Jack asked, crossing his arms.

"Just a few more algebra questions, then my science and I'll be done for now," Fareeha said, pulling her book closer to hide how many questions she actually had left.

"'For now'?"

"Well I'll have to ask Mom to help me with my Arabic homework. So I'll be as done as I can be."

"...Alright. No more snacks, though," Jack said, nodding toward the various half-empty bags of chips and cookie crumbs littering the floor of McCree's room. "You'll spoil your dinner. McCree, clean up your bunk," he added.

"Yessir," McCree answered automatically, though he made no motion to follow through as Morrison left the doorway. Fareeha punched a few more problems into her calculator before anyone spoke again. "Thanks," McCree murmured.

"For what?"

"Coverin' for me," he said, opening the book back up at the beginning. "Not sure he believed I'm helpin' _you_ , though. Mean, why would I know any of this?" he muttered, sighing and staring down at the book. "I'm just a dumb ol' country boy."

"You're not dumb," Fareeha frowned, "It's not your fault you had to stop going to school. The Omnics blew up your town, it's not like you flunked out or anything."

"Wasn't too smart when I was in school, neither," McCree sighed, scratching his head.

"You're doing fine so far. Now come here, let me show you how you graph polynomials."

"Hows come I gotta learn that?"

"If I have to, you have to. We're in this together, remember?" she smiled, pushing the book toward him. "Now quit whining and study algebra with me."


	8. Familia

The way McCree was nervously bouncing his leg would have been annoying enough, if it didn't come with the little jingle of his spurs with every. Single. Bounce.

"Knock it off, kid," Reyes growled, frowning as he pushed his receiver farther into his ear, listening for any movement from their target. "What's your problem, nervous or something?" he asked. It wasn't like it was McCree's first mission or anything, and it was a simple one anyway. The Russian mafia couldn't match Blackwatch's surveillance tech, and most of the heavy lifting was being done by their new recruit safely off-site anyway—Sombra's periodic little Spanish whispers in their ears kept them up-to-date on their target's movements. They both knew there was nothing to worry about.

"Sorry. Ana took my cigars again," McCree replied, stretching his legs out in front of him and frowning at them, as if they had betrayed him somehow. "An' I'm out of gum. Drivin' me stir crazy…"

Reyes sighed sympathetically, shaking his head. In his mind, the gum was way worse; McCree had an obnoxious way of _popping_ his gum. He reached down and ripped open the velcro on one of his pockets, digging around for a moment.

"Don't tell Ana," he smirked, tossing a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes toward McCree. The cowboy gasped, an almost theatrically large grin on his face.

"I love you, man," he said, his lighter in hand almost as quick as his gun. The little cigarette felt unusual between his fingers, and the flavor of the smoke was foreign and hollow, but it scratched an itch that he'd been trying to ignore for far too long. He relaxed against the crates he was leaning against, groaning almost obscenely as he took another long drag. "Ahh, that'll do nicely." He tucked another cigarette behind his ear for safe-keeping before tossing the pack back to Gabriel. He moved to put it back in his pocket, then paused.

"Can I bum a light?" Reyes asked, sliding another cigarette out of the pack.

"No prob," McCree grinned, his Zippo flipping through the air. "She heckles you, too?"

"Yeah. She doesn't like people smoking around Fareeha," Gabriel shrugged. "I mean, I get it, but I hate having to go halfway to Geneva to smoke."

"I hear ya there," McCree chuckled, flicking his ashes.

"No debes fumar, es malo," a little voice muttered in their ears.

"Cállate, chica," McCree muttered back. "Sheesh, first Ana, now her…"

"Capitán Amari! Commandante Morrison! McCree está fumando y me dijo que se callara!"

"They don't speak Spanish, mija," Reyes chuckled. "You're stuck with us." A few more grumbles came over their earpieces, but no more complaints or pleas to the other commanders.

"Kinda funny, gettin' all these little sisters," McCree mused after a few quiet moments, blowing smoke into the sky.

"What, you got brothers?" Gabriel asked, glancing over at the cowboy.

"Nah, I was an only child," McCree replied, adjusting his hat. "'Bout all my mama could handle," he chuckled. "What 'bout you, Commander?"

"I had three little brothers," Gabriel replied, "So I'm used to dealing with punks like you." McCree just chuckled, a bit of smoke curling up from beneath the brim of his hat.

"Think I'd've liked some little brothers and sisters," he mused. "...Think Mama would've liked it, too." Silence hung for a few moments again, the two puffing away on their cigarettes.

"Well, with how good you are with Fareeha, I think you'd've been a good big brother," Gabriel said. "She adores you. For some reason," he added, smirking.

"She's got good taste," McCree smirked back. "She's a good kid. Ana done raised her right. The rest of y'all, too," he added, smiling a little more genuinely. "Fareeha's lucky to have so many daddies lookin' out for her."

"Well, it's like Ana says, Overwatch is a family. We look out for each other," Gabriel said, tossing McCree's lighter back to him. "You've got brothers now, too." McCree chuckled, shaking his head.

"Naw, you ain't a brother. You're a Papi for sure," he grinned, kicking at Gabriel's boot playfully.

"Hey, watch it, _mijo_ , I'm not that old," Gabriel smirked, reaching over and smacking the brim of McCree's hat downward.

* * *

No debes fumar, es malo - "You shouldn't smoke, it's bad."

McCree está fumando y me dijo que se callara! - "McCree is smoking and he told me to shut up!"

(Apologies for my bad Spanish!)


	9. Hard To Shop For

"Commander!"

Reyes looked up, frowning at McCree as he entered the room. The swagger in his step meant he had to be damn proud of himself for something or other. Probably for finding him while he was trying to wait out the last few hours of his birthday.

"What?"

"Heard it was your special day, so I gotcha somethin'," McCree grinned, producing a shoebox from behind his back—he hadn't even bothered to wrap it—and sliding it down the table. Reyes rolled his eyes and lifted the lid, where he couldn't help but do a double take. Inside was a bottle of Don Federico Highland Reposado, though the blue silk ribbon around the stopper was singed and there was a bit of charred smearing on the glass.

"Wha—I—you—how did you get this?" Reyes asked, his eyes wide.

"Happy birthday," McCree replied, ignoring the question.

"No, really, you're not old enough to buy. How did you get this?" Reyes repeated, his gaze narrowing slightly.

"Remember that joint we blew last month?" he asked, sitting on the table casually. "Shared a wall with a liquor store warehouse."

"You stole me a birthday present."

"Hey, we're not exactly good guys, right?" McCree winked. "'Sides, all the other bottles in that case were ruined, so the whole thing'd be written off anyway. More like dumpster diving for a birthday present."

"You sure know how to shine a light on things," Reyes replied, though he couldn't help the smile that began to grow beneath his mustache as he pulled the bottle out of the box. "How'd you know my brand?"

"Eh, Sombra might've mentioned it," he smiled, adjusting his hat. "She also mentioned you don't like being bothered none on your birthday, so I'd best shove off."

"Hold it," Reyes said, rising from his seat and grabbing two small-ish glasses. "Do a shot with me."

"Now hold on, I thought I was 'too young'," McCree smirked, though he slid onto a stool next to Reyes without any hesitation. "Are you gonna be a bad influence on me?"

"With tequila like this, I can only be a good influence," Reyes replied with a matching smirk, pouring a shot for each of them.


	10. Aesthetics

"What is the meaning of this?"

Ana looked up from her desk, her face impassive but her gaze fixed firmly on Angela. The girl was clearly furious, a file open on her holotab. She recognized it immediately.

"It's Torbjörn's latest design," Ana replied, laying her pen down. "I understand you two have been collaborating on methods for administering first aid in the field."

"It's a _gun_ ," Angela spat, slamming the holotab down on Ana's desk. "A gun!"

"I am aware of that," Ana replied, her tone cool.

"And who thought that _a gun_ would be a good method for delivering biotic fluid?" Angela asked, incredulous.

"I asked Torbjörn to design it for my use."

" _Your_ use?!" Angela replied, her eyes wide.

"Yes. I would like to take a more active role in supporting my men in our missions," Ana replied. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"I won't allow it," Angela said, her voice firm. "I cannot allow my biotic technology to be weaponized. When I joined Overwatch, I was _very_ clear about that."

"Your research is not being weaponized," Ana soothed. "It's merely a delivery method, to improve my effectiveness in the field."

"It's as broad as it is long," Angela crossed her arms, at least some hint of her age showing through.

"And what about your suit? You've already designed a tool for improving your performance on the battlefield utilizing your technology. And what is a weapon but a tool?"

"That is not the same at all! My suit _protects_ me. It enables me to do my job—without it, I'd die, and the mission would surely fail," Angela replied, somewhat surprised that she was even having such a conversation.

"It protects _only_ you," Ana replied, her gaze narrowing. "Your tool is selfish. Should I fall, another agent could pick up my rifle and continue to protect our people. But your suit fits only you. Even your staff doesn't work without a connection to your suit. Yet you wish to lecture me about aesthetics."

"It's not aesthetics!" Angela cried out. "You're a sniper—you _kill_ with these so-called 'tools'. And you want to take my research and put it inside of a tool whose only purpose is to produce _death_. Firing a bullet filled with biotic fluid is a perversion of what it means to be a healer!" Ana sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"You lost your parents in the Omnic Crisis, yes?" she began, "Well, I lost my family, too. I watched my father get gunned down through my scope—and there was nothing, _nothing_ I could do to save him. Omnics cared nothing for the rules of war, they didn't allow medics to attend to the wounded. They were gunned down trying to save my men—my family. I watched, Angela. I watched _countless_ times, helpless as my men were killed, because my only tool was death. If I had this tool, I could have saved them. I could have saved so many more lives at Port Said, in San Diego, in Busan, on Route 66..."

"We know who is to blame for Route 66," Angela muttered.

"Would you care to repeat that, Doctor?" Ana spat, fire in her eyes as she rose from her seat, fist clenched. She waited for a beat to pass, to see if Angela would dare challenge a mother bear. "Your concerns have been noted," she continued, her tone sharp, "But the plans for the Biotic Rifle have already been submitted to Jack and Gabriel."

"Commander Reyes? Why?"

"Blackwatch needs medical technology more than any other division," Ana replied, "I'm sure you've noticed how often their casualties come into the medical wing. They have very few options in the field, and even your biotic pens often aren't enough. If we can someday equip all of our agents with a tool they already know how to use that can save one another's lives—"

"They're the most likely to misuse it!"

"If they can save one another's lives," she continued, speaking over Angela, "It can only improve Overwatch's effectiveness as a force. You're free to submit your dissent, but the Biotic Rifle _will_ be built."

"Believe me, I will," Angela growled, snatching up her holotab and storming out of the office.


	11. Marigolds

It was the first time McCree's duty schedule had him on base at the beginning of November, and for the first time in years, he was finally able to build a proper altar. He had such fond memories from his childhood of helping Mama prepare the altar for Day of the Dead, back when he was too young to work the herd with Papa.

The altar had always been large, bearing images of McCrees going back almost 200 years. Silvery daguerreotypes, faded sepia photos blending into their brown leather frames, formal portraits of men and women in crisp olive green uniforms with fashionable curls, Polaroid snapshots at the rodeo, a brightly front-lit image of smiling people in a dark room with the time and date in bright orange in the corner, carefully framed black-and-white sonogram images that he had been too young to comprehend… There were always more than a few photos of Espinozas scattered throughout as well, and unrelated ranch hands who met tragic ends on the range, many of whom very well might have had every trace of them swallowed up by the vast emptiness of the Llano Estacado, wiped clean from history by the wind and dust; their memories were preserved only in the timeless bastion of spirit that was the McCree Ranch.

Jesse smiled wistfully as he carefully set another holoframe on the top tier of his altar. He didn't have many mementos from the ranch, and all the old photos had burned; all that remained was him and what he could carry in his memory, but maybe that was enough. He could at least find old snapshots of his parents and grandparents on the internet—young and lively and happy. The perfect pictures for an altar.

Mama in her wedding dress, her smile a mile wide as Abuela tucked a flower in her thick black hair. Papa practically laid flat on the back of a lunging, bucking bronco, his hand high and his hat snug and low. Grampa McCree steadying two beaming children sitting high and proud on a calm old chestnut mare. Gramma McCree in her _much_ younger days, a bottle of beer in her hand and a live band on stage over her shoulder. Uncle Javi back from deployment, still in desert camo and still smiling and still with both legs. His abuelos and their pet cat—a recent photo. Jesse was almost positive Abuelo and Abuela weren't dead yet, but Jesse was also certain that his photo would be front and center on their altar, too—young and innocent and smiling.

Maybe he could do a little digging, track them down. He could pay them a visit on his next leave...assuming he wasn't a spirit himself, by then.

He let out a little sigh and lit a votive candle next to Mama's photo, the little tongue of flame making the image of the Virgin Mary on the front glow brightly. He kept the crosses and candles on Mama's end of the altar, however—he and Papa had never been church-folk, and Papa had been visibly upset when Abuela had tried to teach him the Stations of the Cross one spring morning. From what he remembered, Papa put more stock in Native beliefs; he took Jesse to visit a medicine man once, but he'd never stepped foot inside a church with him willingly. But everyone, Catholic, Protestant, Apache, atheist or otherwise, had always come together for Day of the Dead without fuss, and he intended to keep that peace.

He'd practically dropped a whole paycheck on the display, but when it comes to family, money's no object, even if it's being spent on overnighting things like Dr Pepper and boxes of Moon Pies and a crate of sugar skulls to Switzerland. He'd been left with no choice, though; the local Spanish specialty stores were stocked to appeal to Spaniards, with absolutely nothing to meet his homesick Texan needs, and while improvisation was his typical go-to response, he wanted to do this right.

"Delivery for Herr McCree!"

"Oh for God's sake, not another one," Reyes muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he pushed the buzzer for the entrance. Every crate that had come through in the last week had registered on entrance scan as some sort of foodstuff—if McCree had ordered one more box of junk food, he was going to scream. And possibly drag the kid down to the market where normal human beings shopped around here, but either way, screaming was guaranteed.

"Scans register no hazardous material," Athena stated, "Large quantities of vegetable matter detected."

"Veggies, huh...at least he's branching out," Gabriel muttered, heading down to the freight access. As soon as he opened the door to the delivery access hall, he was immediately hit with a strong odor—musky and familiar. He lifted the lid on one of the half-dozen wooden crates, and a little smile came to his lips as everything clicked into place in his mind.

Marigolds.

"Sign here, please," the driver said, holding his breath against the smell.

"Sure, no problem," Gabriel said, his attitude improving immensely as he dashed a quick 'X' off on the signature line and loading the crates onto one of the levi-dollies in the access hall. The door of the cargo bay opened with a loud buzz and he rode farther into the base, seated high atop the wooden crates like they were a powerfully scented palanquin.

"What in the world is that?" Torbjörn asked, covering his nose with a frown. "It smells awful."

"Oh, it's not so bad," Ana replied, leaning against his workbench with a smile.

"It's McCree's latest project," Gabriel replied, fiddling with the control wheel and swinging closer to Torbjörn. "Oops," he smirked.

"Ugh—get that garbage out of here!" he complained, waving his hand in front of his face. "Making poison gas is against the Geneva convention."

"I like it. It smells...masculine, whatever it is," Ana grinned, winking up at Gabriel. Gabriel let out a cackle as he sped off as quickly as the dolly would carry him, the musky scent billowing behind him.

In the much narrower barracks corridors, the scent was almost overpowering—the truck drivers must have been suffering pretty badly. Gabriel chuckled as he parked and hopped down, kicking at the door with a steel-toed boot.

"Special delivery, McCree," Gabriel hollered, his hands shoved in his pockets. The door swung open, McCree's expression bright.

"Oh! …That all fer me?" he asked, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Yup. Six crates of marigolds sound about right?" Gabriel asked, smirking.

"…I-I thought it was countin' flowers individually, so I bought 'bout seventy-five," McCree attempted to explain, his voice dropping away. "…Shit, that's a lotta flowers."

"Hey, it's your money, kid," Gabriel shrugged. "…I've always used silk flowers for my altar, though," he offered, smirking. McCree's expression fell, and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"…I-I've missed doin' Dia de los Muertos proper fer the last few years," he murmured, "Been in the field every time. Figured I oughta do it right this year. Pull out all the stops, y'know?" Gabriel leaned around the doorway slightly, peeking into McCree's room and giving his massive altar a quick appraisal. He wasn't kidding—it took up an entire wall.

"That's a pretty impressive set-up you've got going there," he remarked, no hint of amusement or jest in his voice as he invited himself in. "You must've been working on this for a while."

"Yessir."

"Go big or go home, huh?" Gabriel replied, raising a brow.

"Yessir."

"Damn, you're making me feel like a bad son the longer I look at it," Gabriel chuckled. McCree sniffed and wiped at his nose quickly, turning away. "Hey, hey, c'mere," Gabriel continued, slinging an arm around McCree's shoulders. "What's wrong, mijo?"

"I-I've been a bad son," McCree whimpered, "I ain't been remembrin' Mama an' Papa like I ought to, an' I've been lettin' people think I'm dead, an-an' I ain't been good t' you an' Ana…"

"Take it easy," Gabriel said, a little smile on his lips. "You've been a pain in my ass from day one, you aren't doing anything different." From everything Gabriel had seen, McCree had always had a good relationship with Ana—Mama's boy, he supposed. "And you're a pain in Jack's ass, too, so, y'know, good job there," he added, chuckling.

The levity didn't seem to affect McCree, who turned into Gabriel's embrace and hid his face in the older man's shoulder.

"Hey, c'mon now, I'm no good with crying people," Gabriel muttered, awkwardly hugging the crying brunet. He frowned slightly—what would Ana say in a situation like this? Or Reinhardt? They were the fuzzy-wuzzy types in the organization… "Look, you came through in the end, didn't you? Hell, look at what you did to make it up to them. Maybe you're not the most punctual. So what? We all know that we can rely on you." He gave McCree a little pat on the head, like he'd seen Ana do when Fareeha was upset. "I can rely on you, can't I?"

"Y-yessir," McCree sniffed.

"Then you're still a good son," Gabriel said, nodding lightly as he did his best to gracefully end the hug. "I'm counting on you, McCree. You've got my back, right?"

McCree simply nodded, trying his best to look up and smile.

Anything for family.


	12. Cotillion Chameleon

McCree sighed with disappointment, running his fingers over the scruff that he'd been so carefully growing out. He'd always been a fan of that casually unkempt look, since it kept him from looking too baby-faced, but Ana would never let him go to a white-tie event looking like he'd just come off of a cattle drive. And so, with a heavy heart, he draped his hot towel around his shoulders and picked up his shave brush.

"...Maybe she'll let me keep the goatee, at least," he muttered into the mirror, lathering up.

* * *

"We're going to be late!" Ana called from upstairs, though she was the one who was running behind. She stepped into her heels with a grumble and hurried down the stairs as best she could. She was a soldier, always had been—she could manage walking in high heels across flat surfaces only. Forget stairs, forget marginally uneven floors or carpet or wet pavement. Halfway down the stairs, she was strongly considering just kicking them off and trying again at the bottom of the steps.

"Fareeha forgot her shawl," she called, taking each step carefully, "And I think she might need a spare pair of shoes in case her feet start hurting…" Her voice trailed off as she watched the last three steps, her concentration almost frighteningly intense. Overwatch _needed_ to have a formal uniform suitable for these black-tie and up occasions—one which didn't include stilettos. She would bring it up with Jack first thing Monday morning.

When both feet were on terra firma once again, she let out a sigh of relief and tossed her hair back, finally looking up. The sight that greeted her stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Jesse!" she gasped, her hands rising to cover her mouth. "You—you brushed your hair!"

McCree let out a chuckle at her response, though it was a good deal more reserved than his usual tone. "Is that really the first thing you noticed?" he asked, reaching up to casually feel his coiffed hair as if he hadn't spent 45 minutes in front of the mirror trying to make sure every damn hair was in place. This was, after all, a special occasion—one which the ghosts of his mother and Emily Post would haunt him forever for if he didn't pull out all the stops. He'd even pressed the fold in his pocket square.

"W-well, no—your hat," Ana sputtered, though her smile was a mile wide. "You're not wearing your hat."

"Of course not, ma'am, this party ain't in Texas," he winked.

"And you shaved!"

"Think anybody'll recognize me?" McCree asked, giving his carefully groomed goatee a little stroke as well. "Should I throw in a highfalutin accent?"

"Heavens no," Ana laughed, "Anything more and you'll give me a heart attack."

"I told you I clean up good, didn't I?" McCree chuckled, offering his arm. "Now we'll just have to see how many of them dance steps I remember. Cotillion was a long time ago..."

* * *

The ballroom was naturally quite plush, replete with marble columns, a fine parquet dance floor and a gold and crystal chandelier glittering overhead. Fareeha and Reinhardt couldn't stop looking up at it as they hovered around the edge of the dance floor, gabbing together joyfully as they mingled. Torbjörn had turned up at the gala with a very comely, statuesque woman who didn't seem to be interested in speaking with anyone who didn't speak Swedish. It left Jack, Gabriel and Angela standing awkwardly together just at the edge of the Master of Ceremony's field of view, desperately counting the seconds until their 'fashionably late' colleague arrived.

"Gabriel, didn't you come with someone?" Angela asked, fidgeting with the bangles she wore.

"Yeah, I brought Sombra as my plus one."

"Where is she?" Jack asked, his brow furrowing. Gabriel glanced around the ballroom, a frown claiming his face.

"Not this again," he muttered, huffing.

"You'd better track her down before she decides to try hacking the Pentagon for fun or something," Jack chuckled, waving off the waiter offering glasses of champagne—Angela was still a few months shy of twenty-one, and it would be terribly rude to drink in front of her with that knowledge.

"Well, at least I know where to start looking," Gabriel replied, fruitlessly scanning the crowd again for a moment. After a moment, he froze, his eyes widening slowly.

"Oh. My. God."

"What, is it too late? Are the missiles launching?" Jack asked, disinterested.

"Jack. Look," Gabriel said, swatting Morrison's shoulder. " _Look_!" he repeated pointing toward the entrance to the ballroom. The three peered around the other bodies in the room, finally catching sight of their late arrival. Ana seemed to sail through the crowd in a ruby red evening gown, her thick black hair blending into her sheer dusky wrap; she glowed like a hot coal on the arm of her escort.

"She's so beautiful," Angela breathed, a hand rising as if to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest.

"She is quite a vision," Jack smiled, somewhat shocked that Ana was capable of wearing anything but armor and boots.

"Yeah, she looks great," Gabriel replied, not intending to sound flippant with his comment but failing, "But no, look who she's with."

"Who is that?" Jack asked, his brow furrowing. He was pretty sure Ana didn't have a new beau, and was even more certain that she wouldn't be daring enough to bring him near Reinhardt.

"Dude. That's McCree," Gabriel replied, incredulous at Jack's question.

"No it's not," Jack replied, equally in disbelief.

"That's definitely him," Gabriel said, still staring as the pair made their way toward their little cluster.

"That is _not_ Jesse McCree," Angela interjected, her tone firm. "Impossible."

"Bet you $100 each," Gabriel smirked. "Ana! McCree!" Gabriel called, grinning at the way the cowboy perked up at the sound of his name. He was officially $200 richer.

"Commander Reyes," McCree greeted politely, "Commander Morrison, Doctor Ziegler," he smiled, giving a polite little bend at the waist in her direction.

"I'll be damned," Jack grinned, reaching out to shake McCree's hand as if he was meeting his fellow agent for the first time. "I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't looking at you with my own eyes—Jesse McCree in a tuxedo!"

"It's a good look," Gabriel admitted, though it was hard to tell if he was commenting on McCree's look or his own—he did look quite dashing in his white tuxedo, if he said so himself.

"All men look handsome in tuxedos," Ana smiled, gesturing toward Torbjörn and his companion to emphasize her point. "It can really clean up a man's image," she chuckled.

"Speaking of cleaning up," Gabriel smirked, stroking his goatee and pointedly staring at McCree's nearly matching style, "Looks like you're finally starting to learn a thing or two from me."

* * *

Angela watched like a hawk as McCree lead a giggling, blushing Fareeha through a simple foxtrot, unable to catch any snatches of their conversation but filled with an almost unreasonable amount of suspicion. Some part of her knew that if Ana wasn't worried, that she shouldn't be either, but how could someone not be concerned about Fareeha growing up in the company of assassins and 'reformed' criminals? But of course, Ana was a killer herself—Angela had seen how cold, calculating and brutally efficient she could be in the heat of battle. Why did a lamb like Fareeha need to worry about the wolves around her when she was protected by such a lioness?

Fareeha laughing aloud caused Angela's gaze to narrow as McCree twirled and dipped her. He was being _charming_ , one of the many skills that undoubtedly made him such an excellent Blackwatch agent. Before tonight, she wouldn't have believed he had an ounce of subtlety, class or charm, just a reckless nature and a keen eye—seeing him blend into such a highly civilized environment like a chameleon just made him seem all the more deadly to her. Had he killed at a party like this before? The thought flashed through her mind before she could stop it.

Fareeha dead on the floor, her limbs askew, her turquoise dress rumpled and bunched up far too high, eyes wide, blood pooling behind her head, a single bullet wound partially hidden by her bangs—Ana nearby, her red dress darkened in some places, shredded by gun fire, betrayal in her glassy eyes—her own parents broken apart and bloodied as they'd fled—

"Doctor Ziegler, may I have this dance?" McCree asked, offering Angela his most charming smile as a waltz began to play. The question snapped her back to the moment, her blue eyes wide as they met oddly friendly brown.

"I-I—" she sputtered, looking down at his offered hand and hesitating. She couldn't help but see the blood on his hands. He withdrew it after another moment, a politely embarrassed smile on his lips.

"Beg your pardon, Doctor," he said after a moment, giving a light bow in acknowledgment of her tacit rejection and retreating with a surprising amount of grace, for a man who had been not moments before unknowingly imagined to be a ruthless indiscriminate killer.

"Ah, no, McCree, it's fine," Angela sprang to life and followed him a step, offering her own polite smile in response. "You just broke my train of thought, is all. Of course I'll dance with you." Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, after all—and though Angela hated to admit it, she was never quite certain if her Blackwatch colleagues were friends or enemies. Regardless, she placed her gloved hand in his with well-disguised trepidation.

"I hope I didn't interrupt you curing something," McCree smiled, his hands moving into position, his right hand a very polite distance from her waist. She wasn't sure why this surprised her; he was, after all, playing the role of a perfect gentleman. As much of a cad as he may have been when amongst the other Blackwatch agents (he certainly seemed the type, anyway; Angela didn't make a habit of socializing with Blackwatch any more than she had to), he could certainly be professional when the situation demanded it.

"Oh, no, no, that's not it," Angela replied, taking his shoulder but remaining rather stiff as he began to lead.

"Well, I won't press the question if it's personal," McCree began, "But we're gonna be locked face to face for a few minutes, so we might as well find something to talk about."

"I suppose," she replied. "We don't talk much, do we?"

"No, ma'am," he smiled. "Though I try to keep myself out of the hospital, when at all possible. Nothin' against doctors, of course," he added. She gave a polite, but short laugh, stiffly allowing herself to be dipped. She refused to allow herself to be charmed by such a viper—she may not have been a member of Overwatch at the time, but she knew what McCree had done on Route 66.

"And I don't spend much time in combat," she replied. "Though I _do_ have something against war."

"Understandable," McCree nodded, "Can't hold that against you. Not everybody's got the stomach for it. Not everybody should. World needs more people like you, Doc." Angela blinked, silent for a moment as she tried to process what, exactly, his intentions might be. Simple flattery? A moment of honesty? A clever tactic to win her over?

"...I must say, McCree, I'm not sure who I'm speaking to right now," Angela admitted, struggling to keep the frown from her lips. "Which version of you is the act—the gentleman, or the cowboy?" He let out a throaty chuckle and lead her into a twirl, shaking his head.

"Why's one gotta be an act?" he asked. "My mama wanted me to be a 'proper Southern gentleman'," he explained, affecting a much longer, smoother drawl as he put on airs for a moment, "So I had to learn how to be proper and such to make her happy. It ain't an act, just how my mama raised me. The rest, now that's what my daddy taught me to do," he added, chuckling lowly again. His little addendum sent a chill down Angela's spine, like hearing a rattlesnake.

"It's just so unexpected," Angela said, watching his expression carefully. "I watched you get into a spitting contest just yesterday, after all."

"Ain't everybody got something unexpected about them?" McCree smiled. "World'd be a might plain if everybody was exactly like your first impression." The music wound down, and McCree bowed deeply, catching Angela's curtsy only in his peripheral vision.

"It was an honor and a privilege, Doctor," McCree smiled, leading her back to her still vacant spot at the edge of the dance floor. "I do hope we can have more cordial relations in the future." As he slipped back into the mingling crowd past the dance floor, Angela chastised herself for not immediately assuming he had tried to sneak a double entendre into that salutation.


	13. Ink

"Uh, Doc?"

Angela looked up from her desk, slightly surprised to see McCree in her office. He shifted slightly from one foot to another, his hat in his hands and his gaze downcast. He certainly didn't _look_ injured…

"Yes, McCree?" she replied after a moment.

"I was wonderin' if'n you could help me with somethin'. It's…kind of embarrassing."

Oh great. She managed to restrain an exasperated sigh and began ordering up a full infection screening. "Can I ask what symptoms you're experiencing?" she asked, not even wanting to hear the answer. She'd just run _all_ the tests.

"Oh, no, I ain't sick," he replied, a smile on his lips for a moment. She paused, frowning.

"Are you sure? You said yourself that you don't like doctors," Angela said, laying her holotab down.

"Yeah, it ain't nothin' like that. It's jes'…well, can y' have a look?" he asked, nervously shuffling into the room.

Ah, there it was. She went ahead and hit the 'confirm' button before standing. "Have a seat," she said, sliding the dividing curtain back and gesturing toward the examination table. He hopped up on it without a word and began stripping off his chestplate.

"Now, what seems to be the problem?" she asked, snapping a pair of gloves on.

"Well, hadn't really thought about 'em much 'til this mission," he murmured, unbuttoning his shirt and folding it somewhat awkwardly, his eyes fixed on his hands. Angela frowned, giving him a quick once-over. She didn't see anything out of the ordinary—some bruises and bullet grazes that had been treated in the field, as was typical for Blackwatch agents, but nothing unusual stood out.

"…Thought about what?" she asked, her gaze flicking up to his face. He looked…odd. Upset? …Ashamed?

"These," he said, gesturing to his tattoos. She'd seen many in the course of her work; bold, subtle, even some that had digital moving elements, but McCree's were almost uniformly black, with thick, heavy lines and harsh, threatening images. Skulls, brass knuckles, spider webs, chains—they'd always reminded her of the tattoos sailors wore hundreds of years before, or the ones that prisoners wore much more recently. No surprise, of course—he _was_ a criminal. He certainly wasn't the only Blackwatch agent similarly marked up.

"What's the problem?" she asked.

"Mission that jes' come up was back 'round my ol' stompin' grounds," he murmured. "I couldn't go. They need me on that mission, an' I couldn't go."

"Why not?" Angela asked.

"We were s'posed to be gathering intelligence on the Mongrels, Deadlock's rival gang in the region. 'Course, I know a bit about outlaw activity in those parts, so I thought I's a natural pick for the mission. But if anybody—an' I mean _anybody_ —'round there saw my tattoos, they'd know I was Deadlock, an' they'd've killed us all. So I couldn't go. Reyes was pissed, dogged me out in front of everybody," McCree sighed. "Stupid to get 'em in the first place," he muttered, glaring at the black lozenge on his shoulder. "Stupid kid, ain't got no idea what he was doin'…"

Angela's brow wrinkled as she observed his quiet self-loathing. This wasn't the usual cocky McCree she heard yelling up and down the halls with other agents, or saw being doted on by Ana and Gabriel like he was the son each one had never had, the golden boy of Blackwatch. His confidence had clearly been shaken; it must have been quite some time since he'd been yelled at by command.

"…How can I help?" she offered, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear.

"Can y' take 'em off?" he asked, peeking up at her. "Gimme a clean slate?"

"Of course I can," she smiled. "We have a few options that we can start right away…"

* * *

She was somewhat surprised at how well he sat for the removal—even the most advanced dermal regeneration techniques were going to be painful, but he hardly even flinched, even near his spine and ribs. Angela had never seen him cry out coming into the operating room, though, and on the few occasions they had been assigned on a mission together, she'd only seen him swear in pain when he decided to take battlefield medicine into his own hands.

"Fertig," she smiled, stepping back from the examination table, "You will probably be a bit sore for a little while, but you 'slate' is clean, as you asked."

"Thank y' kindly, Doc," McCree smiled, tenderly flexing his back before looking over his shoulder in the mirror at his now empty skin—he looked like he was recovering from a sunburn, at worst. "Well, best get a move on."

"Where are you off to now?" she asked, throwing away the spent packs of biotic gel on the tray next to her.

"Tattoo parlor," he grinned, slipping his shirt on and not bothering to button it as he strode out, "Gotta get all that ink replaced."

* * *

Fertig - "Done"


	14. The Best Use For Your Talents

"I think all of this security is silly," Amélie sighed, setting her grocery bags on the counter. "In the house, while I'm out… There haven't been any threats, so what is the problem?"

"We all jes' feel better knowin' there's someone lookin' out for you when Gérard's away," McCree replied, his thumbs hooked into his belt. He'd gotten yelled at far too many times for touching things in the Lacroix house—seemed like everything was expensive or valuable.

"Pah! The weapon of a terrorist is fear. I will _not_ live like that—a life lived in fear is no life at all."

"Fine words, ma'am," McCree replied, nodding. "'S why there's an agent with you. See this?" he asked, smirking as he gestured to his face, "Ain't 'scared." Amélie shot a haughty, yet amused look McCree's way as she pulled brightly colored vegetables from the bag.

"Is there really nothing better suited to your 'talents' than accompanying me to the market?"

"Well, there's always taste tester, ain't there?" he asked, grinning as he reached for a plate of pastries.

" _Ne touchez pas_ ," Amélie snapped, brandishing celery in his direction.

"Aww, can't I have one o' them lemon tarts, at least?" McCree whined, "I'll leave the raspberries this time, promise!"

"Lemon is for Commander Morrison."

"What, you make _him_ tarts, but not me? I'm good and truly hurt," McCree clutched his chest, pouting. A soft giggle left Amélie at his theatrics. Americans.

"If you must eat something, have a croissant."

"If you insist," he grinned, snatching up a flaky roll.

"Eat over a plate," she added quickly, "Unless you want to clean my kitchen."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied reflexively.

"I might make you clean it anyway," she added, looking down at his boots, still dirty from his last mission.

"Now, would _that_ be a good use of my 'talents'?" McCree asked, winking playfully as he casually searched through the cabinets.

"It would be educational, no doubt," she smirked, reaching up and opening the correct cabinet.

"Thank y' kindly," McCree smiled, grabbing a bread plate—he at least knew what all the plates and utensils _were_ , even if he wasn't keen on using them.

"You're in France, we say merci," Amélie said, smiling patiently.

"Gesundheit," he replied, chuckling.

"You are an agent, you speak how many languages, yet you cannot learn the simplest French?"

"Heh, Gérard's confounded by the same thing," McCree remarked, biting into the croissant. "'Sides, I think you'd be downright offended at my accent."

"I am not a Parisienne," she laughed. "You will eat French food and drink French wine, but not use French words?"

"It's a lot harder n' eatin' and drinkin'," McCree shrugged between mouthfuls. Relative silence reigned for a moment as Amélie arranged brown-wrapped cuts of meat in the refrigerator. "Gérard bought you a gun yet?"

"Aie, not this again!" Amélie groaned, her forehead thudding against the fridge door. "I've told you, I've told Gérard, I've told Morrison—I don't want a gun!"

"I'm jes sayin'!" McCree replied, holding his crumb-covered hand up, "If y' had a gun, we'd all feel a lot better!"

" _I_ wouldn't," Amélie retorted.

"C'mon now, we can get you a nice little .22, bullet goes in real clean-like, usually don't even come out the other side, so your delicate fineries won't get ruined, only gets messy on the inside—"

"Ugh, spare me, _please_ ," she begged, waving him off.

"It don't kick much, neither, aimin's real easy, just pop off 3 or 4 rounds right in a man's nose or throat, and he ain't gettin' back up."

"Th-three or four?!"

"Five'll _really_ make sure they're down—"

"Why would I want to shoot a man three or four times—let alone _five_?"

"Well, Gérard n' me could do it with one, even with a .22. Jes' about anything'll go down in one if y' put it in their eye. If y' want somethin' more professional that'll definitely do the trick in one shot, we can get you a 9mm…"

"Merde! I don't want to use a gun! I'm not an agent like you."

"We could maybe work you up to something like this if all goes well," he chuckled, patting his pistol affectionately.

"I wouldn't be caught dead with that clunky old thing," she quipped, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Not bein' caught dead is the idea, Amélie," McCree replied, his tone growing more serious. "I mean it, though, we're all jes' worried about you. Hell, Doc knows how to use a gun, an' ain't nobody hate guns more'n her."

Amélie sighed, rubbing her eyes in exasperation. "I'll think about it."

"That there's French for 'no', ain't it?"

"Ah, you're learning," Amélie smirked.


	15. All Right

"Ma'am, you can't—"

"Get out of my way!"

"—restricted access—"

"I'll restrict YOUR access!"

"Ana?" Dr. Ziegler said, darting out into the hall, "What are you doing h—"

"Get out of my way, Angela!" Ana roared, the ferocity of a bear in her eyes. The doctor didn't hesitate to move; not only was Captain Amari her commanding officer, but it was never a good idea to get between a mother and her children—and Ana had _many_ children these days. Ana threw the door open with a loud bang, her eyes wide.

"Jesse!" she cried, crossing the room in two strides and throwing herself onto the bed, as if to protect him from some invisible threat in the room.

"M-Ma'am?" McCree stuttered, rather confused by all the excitement.

"Oh Jesse, what did you get yourself into?" Ana asked, looking down at what was left of his arm.

"I'm alright, ma'am…heh, _all right_ ," he repeated, lifting his still intact right arm, filled with needles pumping him full of antibiotics and comedy-enhancing painkilers. The remark earned him a cuff on the ear from Ana, her motherly concern momentarily displaced by motherly outrage.

"What were you thinking?! Getting yourself blown up like this—you were on the casualty list for this mission! Do you have any idea what that did to Fareeha? To me?!" she snapped.

"Sorry," he replied sheepishly, the sensation of the blow dulled by the morphine drip.

"Oh, I should have been there to protect you," Ana sighed, wrapping him in a tight hug around the neck. "I'm going to kill Gabriel for sending you all in there without a medic!" she snarled, her hold on him tightening.

"Ma'am, please!" McCree gasped, struggling for air against her crushing hug.

"I lost my father to war, I lost my husband to war, and God forbid I lose my son, too!" she cried, grasping McCree's shoulders tightly. She'd lost many soldiers under her care—too many—and each one hurt terribly, but none of those losses compared to the sickening feeling of reading 'Omar Amari' or 'Ahmed Shafiq' or 'Jesse McCree' on the casualty lists.

"Sorry I worried you so," McCree murmured, unable to hold Ana's gaze. "It was my arm or Winslow's life. I just did what you'd've done." Ana tensed, her lips pursed into a thin line to keep them from trembling.

"No… _Habibi_ , don't do what I would do," Ana murmured, cupping his face in her worn hands. "It's a mother's duty to put her life on the line for the ones she loves." She leaned down and kissed his brow. "So until _you're_ a mother, you're forbidden from doing what I would do, got it?" she asked, giving his ear a sharp tug.

"Ow! Y-yes, ma'am," McCree yelped, his stump raising in a defensive gesture.

"Ana? Please, I'm afraid you have to go—we're ready to measure him for his prosthesis, and I can't have you terrorizing my patient," Dr. Ziegler smiled, though she made a point of holding the door open.

"Yeah, Doc's gonna get me one o' them robot arms," he smiled. "I'll be good as new. An' I'll make this up to you and little sister somehow, promise."

"I know you will," Ana said, letting out another little sigh before leaning down to give him another motherly kiss. "Be good for the doctors, Jesse."

"Will I get a lollipop?" he asked sardonically.

"Don't push it, young man," Ana warned, though a smile tugged at her lips. He must have been feeling alright, and he was in good hands. "Though if you're good, you might get something better," she added as she left the room.

"I'm gettin' _two_ lollipops," he bragged to Dr. Ziegler, smirking.

* * *

McCree sighed as he repeatedly touched his thumbs to his fingertips, each little 'clink' of his new left hand tallied by the diagnostic computer and adjusting the servos and circuits to match the responsiveness of his right hand. The artificial sensation of touch would take some getting used to—his metal arm already felt disturbingly familiar, and he was already dreading the day he'd get an itch on it. It would be like trying to scratch the top of his foot while still wearing his boots, and he knew it.

"Special delivery, McCree," Dr. Ziegler smiled, holding up a small box wrapped in slick paper. "Opening it should be a good fine motor skills test, too."

"Much obliged," McCree grinned, eagerly reaching for the gift. "Must be my lollipops." He tore at the wrapping paper with all the eagerness of Christmas morning, his eyes widening slightly at what was inside—an elaborately finished wooden box of cigars.

 _'Remember: No smoking in the house!_

 _-Ana_

 _P.S. No smoking in the hospital, either.'_

"…I've got the best mom in the world," he smiled, pulling one out and inhaling the aroma.


	16. Letters

_Ana,_

 _You taught me well, but even knowing where I've always stood, I can see that things just ain't right here anymore. Sorry it has to end like this, but I think it's time Overwatch and I parted ways. If you ever need to find me, ma'am, you know my frequency, and I know your activation signal—I'll always come when my mama calls._

 _I hope the next time we meet, we're still family._

 _Love,_

 _Jesse_

* * *

 _Commander Morrison,_

 _Consider this my formal resignation from Overwatch. My debt is paid. I'll understand if you want to put out another hit on me and not just for show this time, but I'm thinking Overwatch can't afford to hunt me down again. You gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em, Jack._

 _Regardless, I'll do my best to stay out of your way._

 _—_ _McCree_

* * *

 _Reyes—_

 _I've got a bullet with your name on it._

 _See you in Hell._

 _—_ _McCree_


	17. Baptism by Fire

McCree had never been a spiritual man; church-folk had always rubbed him the wrong way, and he and Papa had shared their secret doubts only out on the range, far from Mama's nightly rosaries and long after the other hands had murmured their prayers and gone down for the night.

Overwatch was the closest thing to faith he'd ever had, the first thing he really believed in. They were disciples of Justice, even men like him and Reyes, working in the darkness to serve the light. That's what Ana had taught him, and he'd believed it with all his heart. But he'd seen the temple crumbling from the inside long before anything had started to tarnish that shining edifice, and left before anyone outside had begun to whisper the name Blackwatch.

Slowly, others were pushed out as well, the honest ranks dwindled; but he was sure that as long as Ana was still there, that righteous flame was still burning.

But when he heard the news of Ana's death, he knew the temple was empty, the spirit of Justice had abandoned that defiled place. It wasn't but a few months before HQ was destroyed, with Reyes and Morrison listed among the dead. At that point, he felt some sick satisfaction in seeing the wicked burn. Overwatch had fallen so far from what the world needed it to be; what he had been taught to fight for; what he had unquestioningly sullied his hands for so that little sister would never have to.

With the altar broken and his temple finally destroyed, McCree had been left to wander the sick earth, carrying the hot embers of that just flame in his heart—one of the last defenders of the true faith, one of the last valiant knights fighting to keep the corruption of the world at bay, an evangelist vigilante with Justice at one side and Death at the other, baptizing with fire and spreading the gospel of justice in a world where he knew no one was up there watching over them.


End file.
